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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141216">infinity times infinity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlerie/pseuds/owlerie'>owlerie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Miscommunication, album fic kinda, fwb to lovers, this is not an omi birthday fic but i am posting it on his birthday regardless</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:55:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141216</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlerie/pseuds/owlerie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Living next door to Miya Atsumu comes with its own unique set of challenges, none of which Kiyoomi is prepared to handle. Dealing with Miya's constant rotation of hookups is hard enough even without Kiyoomi getting roped into the mess himself.</p><p>To say <em>nothing</em> of his pesky, inconvenient, all-encompassing crush.</p><p>———</p><p>a fic based loosely on sleeping at last's <em>space</em> album!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>infinity times infinity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>happy birthday to the light of my life, my sun moon and stars, star spiker of the msby black jackals and resident brainworms source sakusa kiyoomi. here's a fun fic that's been on the back burner for a few weeks now, just biding its time and distracting me from term papers. enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first nail in Kiyoomi’s proverbial coffin hits home at half past two on a sunny Saturday afternoon. It comes in the form of the man slumped over his kitchen counter, ice pack slapped fully over his left cheek and raspy whine filling Kiyoomi’s otherwise peaceful home with grating noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Kiyoomi was sixteen years old, Miya Atsumu blew into his life with all the grace and aplomb of a category five hurricane, one hand extended in greeting and a mop of mustard-yellow hair sitting in a messy nest atop his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya was brash and loud, showered too little and yelled too much — Kiyoomi loathed the sound of his voice by the end of their two-week training camp, echoing through the hallways of Ajinomoto far too loudly for how late at night Kiyoomi heard it. He picked petty fights and swiped food from his teammates’ plates at lunch and complained long and often about missing his brother to anyone within hearing range. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, Kiyoomi is twenty-four and nothing has changed, save perhaps for the stress wrinkles lining the furrow of his brow and the ever-evolving strength of his jump serve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the fact that Miya lives next door to him now. That’s new, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a number of things Kiyoomi hates about this arrangement, categorized in at least six different lists labeled things like </span>
  <em>
    <span>most to least likely to cause me a stress-related aneurysm </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>top ten worst things to wake up to on a Monday morning.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Article number 27: Miya’s ensuite bathroom shares a wall with his own. (Article number 27a: Miya likes to sing off-key showtunes as he gets ready for morning practice, which is unfortunately the same time Kiyoomi takes his morning shower.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Article number 8: Miya frequently forgets to do his own grocery shopping if his brother is out of town, leading to him knocking on Kiyoomi’s door at ungodly hours to ask for basic pantry staples like eggs and sugar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Article number 13: By virtue of living next door, as well as of being the poor fool that’s known Miya the longest out of all their teammates, Kiyoomi is routinely subjected to about 75% of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>I-need-to-complain-to-anyone-within-hearing-range </span>
  </em>
  <span>moods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, as Kiyoomi listens to the ephemeral pang of his fate being sealed shut and thrown six feet underground, Miya is bemoaning the woes of the off-season — lack of practice, more free time than any of them know what to do with, the inevitable horde of magazine interviews and modeling sponsorships descending on the better-looking members of the Black Jackals like vultures after the kill.  He throws one tanned arm heavy across his face and twists in his — no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kiyoomi’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> — barstool so he can peek out at Kiyoomi with one squinted eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you here for anything important, or are you just going to take up space all day?” Kiyoomi asks, maybe a little less bluntly than he would have intended. </span>
</p><p><span>It’s not like he </span><em><span>really </span></em><span>minds</span> <span>Miya’s company. He’s gotten used to it over the years, the way one gets used to joint pains as they age, or to the banshee cries of the upstairs family’s new baby girl every time she wakes up in the middle of the night. A necessary annoyance, if he wants to play for the Jackals — and at least he gets free food out of it every now and then, too. </span></p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Rude</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Omi,” Miya squawks. Kiyoomi makes a face, half at the nickname and half at the ear-piercing volume it was spoken at. “I’ll have ya know this is yer fault, ya ass.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya waves a vague gesture with the ice pack in his hand before returning it to his cheek, and Kiyoomi sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said I was sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a shoot for Adidas in </span>
  <em>
    <span>three days,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Omi. What if the bruise doesn’t go away by then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya huffs childishly, but relents. It’s not like a little purple along his cheekbone will be any problem for a professional makeup crew — that’s what they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> for, after all. Kiyoomi has been through his fair share of photoshoots to know at least that much. It’s not the bruise that’s upsetting Miya, he knows. It’s his pride, the same way it always is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, Kiyoomi admits, the guilt of nailing Miya right in his smug face with a serve is dampened by the fact that the very same serve won him this week’s service ace bet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll collect on his due tomorrow, though. For today, he has to sit here and listen to Miya talk his ear off in penance — which is fine. A couple hours of jaw-grinding is a small price to pay for two weeks of sweet, sweet silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or relative silence, anyway. Miya — as much as Kiyoomi would love to deny it — still lives next door, after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” he asks sharply, the moment the thought enters his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whuh— huh?” Miya’s voice is somewhat garbled by the ice pack smushed into his cheek. “Ya sayin’ ya don’t want the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleasure</span>
  </em>
  <span> of my company, Omi-Omi? I’m a real treat, ya know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His last words are punctuated with a garish wiggle of his eyebrows. Kiyoomi drags a hand down his own face in exasperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s always like this with Miya. Kiyoomi has come to find, in the past three years of teamwork on both the Jackals and the Olympic team, that Miya will flirt shamelessly with anyone with a pulse, coworkers </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> exempt. Kiyoomi has had to bear the brunt of it more than once, on team outings where Miya gets a little too drunk. It’s only because he’s the most viable option, of course — Hinata never shuts up about Tobio from the Adlers, Bokuto is happily engaged, all of the older players are either straight, married, or both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, has rationalized it over and over in his own head, but it doesn’t make Miya any less irritating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The day I find your company to be anything other than an astronomical pain in my ass,” Kiyoomi says, pulling a face as Miya tilts his head to hear better, “is the day I know I’ve gone completely insane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya laughs, full and open. “Yer such a priss, Omi,” he replies. “Plenty a’ people </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> my company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi coughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m aware.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Article number 4: the walls of the Black Jackal apartment complex are impossibly thin, which is more a complaint against the building developers than against Miya himself, except for this — Miya is </span>
  <em>
    <span>shamelessly</span>
  </em>
  <span> loud whenever he brings home a new conquest after a night out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi has become far too well-acquainted with the sound of Miya’s creaky bed frame, to say the least. He knows more about Miya’s tastes than he ever, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya lapses into blissful silence for a moment, squinting up at Kiyoomi from his perch on the barstool. His expression is intense, unreadable— the eye contact proves to be too much for Kiyoomi after a moment, and he busies himself with half-heartedly scrubbing at a glass sitting in his kitchen sink to avoid it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The atmosphere between them is heavy, stifling. Even like this, turned away and glaring down into the depths of his sink basin, Kiyoomi can feel the weight of Miya’s calculating eyes on the nape of his neck. When they’re on the court, the full force of that stare is a comfort— it tells Kiyoomi that Miya is watching him, analyzing his condition, ready to set to him at any moment— but in the comfort of his own home, the attention feels like a hot branding iron against his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t get along. They never have. So why is Miya here, of all places, deciding to spend his first free Saturday of the off-season moping around when Kiyoomi could be doing so many other, </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> things with his time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe the question should be— why is Kiyoomi </span>
  <em>
    <span>letting</span>
  </em>
  <span> him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A polite cough from Miya’s direction forcibly drags Kiyoomi out of his head. He pointedly refuses to turn around, scrubbing a little harder at the glass in his hand. He’s fairly certain it’s already clean, that there’s nothing on the square inch underneath the sponge that needs to be wiped away, but Miya doesn’t need to know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need something?” Kiyoomi asks. Four words, the same ones he spoke when he opened his front door to the sight of Miya’s bruised face an hour before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are ya comin’ out tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi sets down the glass, maybe a little harder than he had intended. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>clink</span>
  </em>
  <span> rattles in his head like a pinball. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Team bonding. Dinner ‘n drinks. Ya </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> what it is, Omi, we do it every month.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how many times have I come along before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jus’ the once,” Miya says, and when Kiyoomi turns to look he’s got a crooked, idiotic grin slashed across his face. “But I bet Wan-san five thousand yen I could get ya out again tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi scoffs. “Sorry to disappoint you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No yer not,” replies Miya, quick as a whip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that why you came over? To harass me into getting drunk with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya laughs, slapping one hand down onto the countertop with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>whack </span>
  </em>
  <span>that startles Kiyoomi. “Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is. Kiyoomi knows this. He knows that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Miya</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows this. None of this matters, because Miya will continue to be endlessly annoying and Kiyoomi will continue to be endlessly tormented by him, until one of them breaks first and signs a trade to another V.League team halfway across the country. It’s how they are.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Miya continues, removing the ice pack from his face and waving it half-heartedly in Kiyoomi’s direction, “ya owe me. For breaking my face.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t break your face. It’s not my fault you don’t know how to receive properly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miya slumps back over the counter in a childish display of dramatics, ice pack hitting the granite with a sharp thud and nearly knocking over the carefully placed glass of water Kiyoomi had set out for him. Really, Kiyoomi isn’t sure why it matters so much— it’s not like he’s ever made a point to go out with the team before, aside from the one </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> ill-advised birthday dinner for Meian where he discovered exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> Miya managed to charm a new stranger into his bed every weekend. He doesn’t particularly feel like sitting through a reply of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> night, thanks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going,” he repeats, after turning away from the sink to see Miya leveling his best at puppy-dog eyes in Kiyoomi’s direction. He scoffs— it looks a bit more like Miya is somewhere between half-asleep and about to cry, completely ruining the effect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, though, Miya relents, picking his cheek up from the counter and leaning back so quickly that the front legs of the barstool wobble precariously. “Fine,” he pouts. “But ya can tell Shouyou yer not comin’, I ain’t gonna do that for ya.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi grimaces. It’s hard to deny Hinata anything, even for him. He should have known Miya was going to play dirty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, it’s not enough to change his mind. As he ushers Miya out of his kitchen and through the front door, ignoring the incessant whining and cajoling in favor of locking both the knob </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>the deadbolt, Kiyoomi thinks there’s nowhere he would want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> tonight than crammed into a sweaty, too-crowded booth at a hole-in-the-wall izakaya, watching Bokuto try to arm-wrestle Barnes and Miya attempt to charm the pants off anyone who so much as </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathes</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his direction. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Except, perhaps, here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t your apartment, Miya,” he bites out, trying his </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolute best</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to stare down the very </span>
  <em>
    <span>unbuttoned</span>
  </em>
  <span> collar of Miya's shirt, where a long-fingered hand is snaking its way across the jut of his collarbone. Miya giggles— actually has the nerve to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as if having a half-clothed rut against Kiyoomi’s front door is par for the course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given the number of times it’s happened in the three years since they became neighbors, Kiyoomi thinks, it might actually be. What a miserable existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oops,” Miya laughs. There’s a pair of lips attached to his neck, the only part of the stranger’s face visible behind the messy mop of black hair curtained over Miya’s left shoulder. Kiyoomi feels his eyebrow twitch. After a long second, Miya shrugs the stranger off of him, wrapping an arm around a thin waist and tugging them to the side. “Come on, doll, next door over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi doesn’t watch them go. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just that— well, it’s a little amusing to see Miya fumble with his keyring for a full two minutes, trying to fit his Black Jackals locker room key into the keyhole first, and then switching over to the mailroom key with a similar degree of success. He’s flushed and laughing, open and warm and bright in a way that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> too enthusiastic for — Kiyoomi chances a look back at his kitchen clock — half past one in the morning. The stranger wrapped around him like a particularly affectionate octopus is pretty, Kiyoomi admits it now that he’s managed to get a better view from his doorway. She’s tall and slim, a wild mass of short-cropped black hair circling her sharp cheekbones like a dark cloud, and even from his relatively far vantage point Kiyoomi can tell that the jewelry on her wrists and fingers is gaudy, expensive. She leans forward, whispers something into the shell of Miya’s ear that makes him abandon his futile attempts to open the door and turn around to kiss her silly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kiyoomi tears his eyes away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the silver one,” he calls, not looking up to see Miya jerk away at the realization that he’s still in the doorway. “With the 13 engraved on it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits until he hears a small noise of victory echo down the hallway from the next unit over, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>click-creak</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Miya’s front door opening, laughter like wind chimes filtering out into the night air before cutting off into empty silence at the slam of the door behind the two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something cold unfurls between Kiyoomi’s fourth and fifth ribs. He shuts his front door and twists the lock behind him, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge it.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments and kudos are my lifeblood. let me know what you think! also, find me on twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/kiiyoomis">kiiyoomis</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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